


on the subject of humanity

by 0shadow_panther0



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Happy Ending, Well - Freeform, all the relationships are implied btw, the happy ending is implied too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9527858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0
Summary: One day, Wash asks Maine a question, and that's all it takes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anneapocalypse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/gifts).



Maine is used to being alone. Before, at least, he had Wash and Carolina, who he never needed words with, but after Tex, after the Sarcophagus, after Sigma, things changed.

Carolina spends all her time training, harder, harder, until her knuckles bleed through her boxers tape and her eyes bruise with lack of sleep

Wash is jittery and anxious, constantly worrying about their next mission, about his upcoming AI transplant, about CT, who’s been oddly distant.

Maine spends a lot of time alone in the med-bay, nursing headaches with only Sigma’s whispers as company.

The other’s have always avoided him. He doesn’t mind, doesn’t blame them for it. He’s huge, doesn’t talk, and his reputation as a merciless fighter precedes him to the point where nurses draw lots to see who has to tend to him.

Maine is used to being alone.

It’s a blessing in some ways, but recently he’s been taking to loathing it. Being alone makes it that much harder to ignore Sigma’s constant murmurs. He thinks, a bit bitterly, that Carolina is a better fit for the AI. He’s a soldier, a weapon, a killing machine, all he needs is a target. Don’t even need to give him a gun. He’s a simple soul. Doesn’t need any of this metastability bullshit, the never ending stream of ideas.

Recently, Maine’s never alone.

* * *

 When Wash comes to sit with him in the mess hall, it’s a surprise. Wash had been fussing over CT, over everything under the sun, really, and rarely spends time with Maine anymore.

But today Wash slides into the seat across from Maine in the largely empty table, tray of food held awkwardly in his hands. Sigma’s whispers fade into silence.

“I noticed that you’ve been in the med-bay a lot,” he blurts. His head hangs down, as if in shame. “I- uh- I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

Maine considers this for moment, considers Sigma, considers the constant thrum in his head. He lets out a noncommittal shrug, a low rumble echoing in his chest.

Wash seems to deflate a little. “Okay,” he mumbles, looking dejected.

Maine huffs, reaching across the table to pat Wash on the shoulder. ‘I’m fine,’ he says without speaking. The action feels hollow, an unspoken half-lie- he’s fine now, Sigma’s quiet, but Maine knows he’s decidedly not fine.

He just doesn’t know what to do about it.

It seems to cheer up Wash anyhow, and he perks up, starting to ramble about a plethora of things, shows Maine pictures of his cats and parents on his tablet, bumbles about cheerfully, if a bit awkwardly.

Maine smiles, and Sigma remains blissfully silent.

* * *

 He finds that Sigma’s calculations are easier to tolerate after a day with Wash.

* * *

 Wash continues to eat with Maine, until one day York decides to tag along.

“Hey big guy,” he says, all crooked grins and lazy smiles. “You doing okay? Wash hasn’t stopped talking about you for days.”

Maine gives him the same response he gave Wash. He shrugs and grunts, and York seems to take that as affirmation that he’s doing fine.

Maine is indifferent towards York. Their self-proclaimed lockpicker likes the sound of his voice a bit too much, his jokes always veering on the side of excessiveness at the wrong time and his voice unmodulated and loud. A decent guy who never means harm but never realizes it when it happens.

Even so, the banter between York and Wash is comfortable enough today, York reciting the same story of how met Carolina for the umpteenth time, though it might be a first for Wash, considering how enraptured the younger one looks.

With York comes North a few days later, with gentle smiles and soft words.

North seems to temper York, Maine thinks, with a hand his shoulder when York’s voice gets shy of uncomfortably loud and a pat on the knee when his jokes hit a bit too close to home.

‘A caretaker?’ Sigma asks. Maine almost starts with surprise. Sigma has never spoken to him directly before, only whispered of ideas and ambitions to him in rolling cadences and echoing timbres.

He gets over his shock quickly. No, he denies. No, a caretaker would imply that North cares about York because of a sense of obligation.

North does it because he’s his friend.

Sigma buzzes with uncertainty and says nothing more.

Eventually, with North comes South, with her fiery brashness and unapologetic temper, and with South comes CT, with her quiet strength and good nature, despite her recent aloofness, and all of them sit around the table and laugh and Maine feels almost whole.

Almost.

Even so, Sigma seems content, and so does Maine.

* * *

 When Carolina comes back from her mission with news of CT’s betrayal, Maine’s blood boils. He burns with the unfairness of it all, and Sigma _basks_ in his fury.

He locks himself in his room, pacing and snarling.

“CT is officially MIA,” Carolina had said at the mission debriefing, her eyes dark and bruised. Maine knows that look, the set of her shoulders, known her long enough to know the grit of her teeth and the clench of her jaw.

CT isn’t coming back.

His rage rolls over him in waves, and his hands itch to curl into fists and beat something. His head thrums with pain, searing the back of his eyes and roaring in his ears.

He flinches when he hears a knock on the door and has half to mind to ignore it, but it comes again, soft and hesitant, and Maine slams the door open with a warning growl.

Wash stands outside, timid and cautious, and Maine reigns back his anger guiltily. Wash looks terrified.

“I-” he starts. He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath, tries again. “I wanted… to stay with you tonight.” He’s trembling, hands clenching and unclenching with feverish anxiety.

Wash is close to CT too, Maine realizes.

‘Was,’ Sigma corrects him, unnecessarily, and Maine shushes him with gritted teeth.

He lets out a tired sigh and ushers Wash into his room. Wash immediately heads to the cot and curls up against the wall, making himself as small as possible. Maine follows and settles down beside him, a comforting hand on Wash’s head, and falls into a fitful sleep.

* * *

 

Breakfast is a somber affair. South in particular is cold and quiet, eating with shaking hands and stony eyes. Wash moves mechanically, stiff and stilted.

When it's over, everyone leaves but Maine. Wash looks at him curiously, makes as if to stay, but Maine shakes his head. ‘Go on.’

Wash sends one last glance at him before leaving with the others.

And then Maine waits.

‘Why?’ Sigma asks. He knows for who, but despite the fact that he lives in Maine’s own head he can’t seems to understand why.

Maine gives his favorite answer and shrugs.

It’s an hour before Carolina shows up, pale and ashen faced and hair slicked back with sweat. Rusty patches stain the bandages wrapped around her hands. The bags under her eyes are horrifically dark. It doesn't look like she’s slept for days.

“Maine?” she asks, voice cracking. “What are you doing here?”

‘Worried,’ he signs carefully, slowly. Because even though he doesn’t need words to talk to Carolina, sometimes she needs to be told things to understand.

Her brows furrow. “I’m fine,” she says, attempting to brush him off, and Maine almost laughs because other than him, Carolina is the most least-fine person he’s ever seen, except her ways of coping are even more self-destructive than his.

She tries to walk away, but Maine stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She stills. Slowly, she lifts a hand to grasp his and squeezes.

‘You care for her,’ Sigma says suddenly. ‘You care about them because they are your friends. They make you whole’ The realization seems striking to the AI, and Maine can feel his secondhand shock of the revelation, visions of Wash, of York, of North and South and CT, of Carolina and her tired eyes and sweat-soaked hair and bloody hands.

Yes, Maine thinks. They make him more than a weapon. They make him human.

Sigma hums, no longer uncertain.

**Author's Note:**

> so anyway thanks anneapocalypse for my life, and for dragging into rvb feels hell over a long dead character. this one's for you.


End file.
